


You get your day in the sun to be young

by thought



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, nobody here has a minor stimulant problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: "Your ability to martyr yourself for the Rebellion in even the smallest ways is astounding. You do know there are people here who are tasked solely with performing maintenance on organics and their feelings?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, I'm so sorry. Yes I'm trying to do a series with the titles shh don't worry about it

Cassian tends to choose tea over caf. Strong black tea that usually comes as a powder that he never bothers to strain out of his cup, letting the water go dark and astringent and lukewarm. K-2 asks, on a particularly long and boring hyperspace jump, why he doesn't reheat it once it's become appropriately disgusting. Cassian glances up, startled, like he'd never thought of the possibility before.

"I am so glad I'm here to save you from a life of cold tea," K-2 says, flatly, and goes back to the cockpit to stare at the slow blinking of the nav console and contemplate the futility of existence.

Back on base, one of the pilots sees Cassian making tea in the quiet bustle before a meeting. It's one of the new X-Wing pilots, around long enough to know Cassian by sight but not much more. Cassian spends a lot of his free time with the pilots-- it's an easy way to practice his more bashful or shy personas, and pilots always know the latest information about everything happening on base. Or at least those are the reasons Cassian gives. Privately K-2 thinks Cassian just likes the chance to get his hands dirty in a ship's engine or body; he's a decent mechanic, but rarely has a need to make use of his skills. He's clearly come straight from the hangar to the meeting-- there's a smudge of grease on his sleeve. K-2 isn't going to point it out.

"Is that from your home world?" the pilot asks, careful like Cassian hates. "You're from Vest, right?" He puts a strange, rolling emphasis on the first syllable, flattening out the 'e'. K-2 has no idea what sort of accent he's trying to emulate, but whatever it is he's failing.

K-2 diverts most of his processes to watching the interaction from across the room, barely following the frustrated ranting of the analysts he's sitting with. Cassian blinks over at the pilot, like he's surprised anyone might want to speak to him.

"No," he says, and holds up the little green packet, incongruously generic to the point of suspicion, as far as K-2 is concerned. He's tried looking it up and the best he can figure is there was an incredibly enterprising and over-zealous manufacturer twenty years ago, the products of which linger on in Imperial and Rebellion pantries alike.

The pilot stares down at the packet like he's never seen one before. Cassian's face has reverted to polite disinterest. Thankfully, General draven calls the meeting to order. As everyone finds their seats, a protocol droid murmurs to K-2.

"Is he really a spy? That was frankly the most awkward interaction I've seen all day."

"You wouldn't know an awkward interaction if you were the primary cause of-- oh wait." K-2 has no love for protocol droids, and this one has been working with the analysts long enough that ze's started to think K-2 is zer friend.

Later the same day, K-2 is ambushed.

"Your human is brooding again," the engineer with the pink hair announces. K-2's just leaving the maintenance bay after getting a few gears replaced in his arm, and he's already started calling combat subroutines before he realizes that the voice coming from directly above him isn't a threat. She's hanging half out of an access hatch, grease smeared up her cheek, bright pink ponytail swinging lazily in mid-air. Automatically, he looks around for her Wookiee partner. Where one goes the other follows and trouble is close behind.

"You'll have to be more specific," he says.

"I saw him in the mess hall a few minutes ago staring into his stew like he expected eventually it would stare back into him."

"That's just his face," K-2 says, a tiny bit defensive.

"No, this was a level up from the normal. You might wanna make sure he's ok."

"He's not my responsibility."

She snorts, and doesn't even dignify that with an answer. The truth is, if you ask any of the civilian politicians or military officers or pilots, Captain Andor has a droid. "You know, giant Imperial thing, he apparently reprogrammed it, it's kind of unsettling."

If you ask the engineers or the data analysts or most of the medical droids and some of the nurses, K-2SO has a human. "Sort of looks like he wants to kill you, but the brass love him and he's apparently got some great stories if you can get him drunk."

K-2 changes direction and heads towards the mess hall.

On base, Cassian forces himself to eat with everyone else.

"Camaraderie boosts morale improves effectiveness achieves goals."

"Your ability to martyr yourself for the Rebellion in even the smallest ways is astounding. You do know there are people here who are tasked solely with performing maintenance on organics and their feelings?"

"Do you want to see a copy of my latest psych report?"

"I already did. And it doesn't count if you lie."

"If they were any good they'd know I was lying," he says, which K-2 really can't argue with.

"Nevertheless," he says, already fully aware he's lost a fight he didn't really care enough to be having in the first place. "I promise the Empire won't win if you eat in your quarters."

Cassian stabs another forkful of the reddish-brown mush on his plate. It's bad enough that humans have to eat in such a disgusting process, the least they could do is make the food look a little less like waste. "No one's making you sit here."

K-2 emulates a snort. "The alternative being you sit alone in the corner looking pathetic or terrifying, depending who you ask. Or, even worse, someone might try to talk to you."

"I'm very charming."

"Because treating your colleagues like you do your marks will definitely build Camaraderie."

***

Cassian gets back from his meeting in the second largest city on Coruscant two hours late. K-2 is in the back of the ship trying to fix the perpetually malfunctioning lighting system and definitely not running simulations of Cassian being dragged in front of a room of Imperial officials and publicly executed. He waits an extra 94 seconds after he hears Cassian arrive before he goes up to the cockpit to learn the outcome.

Cassian is sitting in the copilot's chair, scrolling furiously on his datapad with one hand. He's still wearing the expensive, ill-fitting clothes of a low-level bureaucrat, and he's sucking on the straw of some sort of iced drink, dark brown like caf but with translucent triangles of jelly floating near the bottom and a rainbow of iridescently coloured ice chips sparkling through the plastic cup.

"What... is that?" K-2 asks.

Cassian shrugs. "I needed an excuse to watch our guy until he met up with his handler. There was a long queue." He swallows again, ice rattling. "Also, I'm pretty sure the stims in this are illegal on-world."

"I take it the meeting went well."

"Mmhm. We're going to make some members of the Council very happy when we get back."

K-2 sends a request for lift-off to the port authority. He suspects that here, too, there will be a queue. "That usually means we're also going to make some of them very angry."

"You can't please everyone, as you keep telling me," Cassian teases him absently. He's still mostly focused on his datapad.

Their lift-off time and flight path pop up on the display. It's going to be three hours, forty-four minutes. "What is your opinion on the information?" K-2 asks.

Cassian shrugs. "Irrelevant."

"Of course. I forgot."

"You do not want to have this argument with me right now," cassian says cheerfully. "I'm never going to sleep again."

"That's statistically unlikely," K-2 says. The display flickers. They've been bumped. Five hours, twenty-two minutes. "Though there's a decent likelihood I'll sedate you first if these mindless traffic directors don't get off their tragic power trip. We may be stuck here forever, Cassian. How do you feel about a nice apartment in the capital? I'm sure I could get my old job back."

Cassian glares. K-2 ignores him. If they're going to be stuck in bureaucratic purgatory with the unlikely but constant threat of discovery hanging over them for the next five hours Cassian can learn to appreciate gallows humour.

They sit in silence for two hours, twelve minutes, before they receive notification that they are to prepare to be boarded for a random inspection.

"You jinxed us," Cassian says. "I'm going to use the Hexwin ID. If anyone saw me earlier I can tell them I was under cover. You'll help my credibility." He rolls to his feet, setting his datapad on the edge of the console and bouncing a bit on his heels.

K-2 makes some rapid adjustments to the onboard computer, leaves a few breadcrumbs to support Cassian's cover but well-hidden enough as to not appear intentional.

"I did not jinx us," he says. "This will likely be an entirely routine inspection. Everything will probably be fine."

Ten hours later, Cassian says, "I think this went a little too fine." K-2 is focused on landing their ship in the designated space in the bay of the Federal Building where Cassian --or rather, Officer Hexwin, Imperial Intelligence Branch-- has been voluntold for a stint onboard a newly commissioned Star Destroyer with a command staff a bit too prone to thinking for themselves.

"I'm going to remind you you said that the next time you complain I'm being pessimistic."

Five days later, Cassian says, "The Alliance absolutely thinks we're dead." He's wearing an Imperial uniform and K-2 desperately wants to straighten his jacket, fold the collar into place to hide the sharp knobs of collarbone peeking out where it frames the soft hollow of his throat.

Three weeks later, Cassian says, "Run a cost benefit analysis for me, K. The number of people who will die because of my actions vs. The number who will live because of the information I will bring to the Alliance."

K-2 sets down the blaster rifle he's cleaning harder than he intends. "You know I won't." He stares directly ahead at the wall, let's all his physical parts come to a rest. "And I know there's an equation you can no longer live with. You have to trust that I'm aware of that, Cassian."

Outside of the room, the steady beat of stormtrooper boots marching past echoes. There is a smudge of blood on Cassian's sleeve that he has yet to notice. K-2 will have to point it out before they leave the privacy of Cassian's quarters.

Thirteen weeks later, Cassian takes their unmarked shuttle out of a final precautionary hyperspace jump and let's out a long exhale. K-2 starts entering in communications codes for an Alliance signal buoy.

They aren't allowed to go back to Yavin IV right away. A possible leak on-base means nobody's coming in who doesn't need to. The base they wind up at is small and obscure and the only thing on the planet besides a few straggly trees and some impressive permafrost.

"this is the exact definition of a tundra," K-2 says as they come in to orbit.

Most of the rebels on-base are Mon Calamari, which is the only reason K-2 can figure as to why the medics don't even hook Cassian up to a nutrient IV when it's so obvious he's lost an alarming amount of weight for a human and is on the verge of collapse. K-2 visits the oil baths briefly, makes sure Cassian isn't going to literally pass out during his debrief (this is a legitimate concern. It has happened three times) and then returns to the ship because the mix of nervous or hostile glances from everyone he passes have every combat readiness subroutine he has running and he's probably going to say something he's supposed to regret if he has to actually interact with anyone. He's become spoiled, working on Yavin IV where everyone knows he's not a threat or under-cover in Imperial territory where if he does stand out it's because of what he represents, not as an aberrance.

Cassian comes back after twelve hours. "They already knew," he says, sitting down on the floor like even getting the last couple feet to the chair is too much.

"What?"

"The Alliance already had most of the information we brought back. I was able to give them some security codes and a few schedules for the prisoner transports, but the maps, the list of names. It's all out-of-date or someone else got it to them. Everything I brought them a decent splicer could have got in an hour or two."

"We always knew there was a risk of that."

Cassian clenches his hands together. "I'm aware of the risks."

"That's exactly what I just said."

"I'm going to go sleep," Cassian says, pushing himself to his feet and only wobbling a little. "They gave me a room."

"Did the general mention when we'll be able to leave?"

"No."

"Well, thank you for that incredibly informational update," K-2 says to the closing hatch.

He powers down to charge for a few hours, writes his AAR once he's back at full power -- the general on this base had barely given him a second glance but he knows Draven will want to see both of their accounts once they're back on Yavin 4. The stolen shuttle was already rather baron when they'd taken it, but after they'd stripped it to ensure no one could track them there was really nothing left but a nav computer and a couple chairs. He's ridiculously bored. Fifteen hours after Cassian leaves, K-2 grits his metaphorical teeth and goes to find whatever passes for the intelligence analysts on this freezing excuse for a base and offer himself up as a willing brain and pair of hands.

This keeps him occupied for another eleven hours-- at first he's relegated to code breaking, which is tedious and repetitive, but eventually he can't stop himself butting in to a conversation about Imperial tactical strategy and then the conversation turns into a debate and then he's joined four Mon Calamari analysts and a human pilot and her astromech (who both seem very confused as to how they got there) in taking over a conference room and seven whiteboards and what may very well be the base's entire supply of datapads.

Eventually a harried looking tech storms in to yell at them because they may not be using all the datapads but they are using almost all of the active servers to run simulations and nobody else on the base can access the network.

They all flood out of the conference room, the organics complaining about their need for sleep and sustenance. K-2 taps the pilot on the shoulder.

"Where would I find the quartermaster? Or a list of room assignments?"

She frowns, then snaps her fingers. "Oh, you're Captain Andor's droid, aren't you?"

"For my sins."

"He'll be in guest quarters. Northeast corner of the base, lower level. There are only five rooms, and he's the only person using one."

"Oh, Maker, we're being punished for something," he murmurs. "Is everyone on this base related, too?"

"Sorry our base isn't the thriving metropolis you're used to," the pilot says. The astromech is circling K-2 like it's going to bight his ankles. "We don't see that many visiting dignitaries out here."

"Yes, alright, wonderful, I'm sure you do the Alliance proud, living off the land and using the same blaster your grandfather used and whatever other romantic tropes you're trying to invoke." K-2 has been finished with this conversation basically since it began.

Cassian doesn't answer when K-2 rings the chime at his door. It's locked to his thumb print, but this base's security also hasn't been updated in about five years, so it only takes K-2 69 seconds to break through the security and open the door.

"If you've died from malnutrition I'm writing it on your tombstone," K-2 tells the vaguely human-shaped lump of blankets on the bunk. He can joke about this because, unlike most life-threatening circumstances (angry Imperials with blasters, angry Imperials with vibroblades, angry Imperials with large boots, stimulants) Cassian has never actually come close to dying of malnutrition. Nevertheless, Cassian has only been eating enough to keep himself functional the last few months, and there is a 2.11 percent chance that he has become ill because of it.

Cassian's hand pokes out from beneath the blankets just far enough to make a very rude gesture, then flops back to the mattress.

"Such wit," K-2 says, flatly. "Such subtlety. Honestly, have you been sleeping this whole time?"

"You're always telling me I need more rest," Cassian says into the pillow.

"You can't catch up on all of it at once, that's not how biology works. Did you sign yourself out of Medical against orders?"

"Medical," Cassian says, "is a storage room with delusions of grandeur."

He sounds almost fond. K-2 leans back against the wall. "You like it here," he accuses. "Ugh, of course you do."

"It's a good reminder," Cassian says. He's still muffled by the pillow. "These people are fighting a war half of the people back on Yavin IV don't even understand."

Cassian brought K-2 to the Alliance but in some ways K-2 is far more comfortable on Yavin IV than Cassian will ever be. K-2 knows how to be formal when it's absolutely necessary and he knows how to navigate a bureaucracy and it does not bother him to see strangers in the halls every week. He knows that not every necessary evil of war is a personal failing. Cassian grew up in places like this, eating and sleeping and fighting with the same small group of people, where you bought or stole your gun and it stayed in your hand until you shot the enemy soldier close up. He doubts this base even as requisition forms.

"Are you having child soldier nostalgia for your Militia days?"

"It wasn't like that," Cassian says sharply. "I chose to fight."

"I never said you didn't."

"Did you need something?" Cassian asks, blatantly changing the subject. K-2 allows it. There's only so much he can think about agency and self-determination before it all gets a bit too self-referential.

"You didn't come back to the ship. I don't actually trust you not to be unconscious in a corridor somewhere because you neglected to mention a stab wound. Also, I was bored."

"Well, congratulations, you found me. Can I go back to sleep now?"

K-2 straightens, low-level warnings starting to pop up in the background of his main processes. "No. Come on, you've been asleep for a day. Either you're ill, in which case you're going to Medical, or you're not, in which case you should come suffer boredom with me."

Cassian wriggles further in to the blankets. "I'm tired, K."

"You just haven't woken up yet."

"K," he says, warningly.

"No. You do not get to wallow in self-pity or try to sleep to avoid your emotions. You knew I'd come looking for you. If you'd really wanted to be accountable to no one you would have made something up. But that would have been too deliberate."

Cassian finally rolls over. "Can we not?" he bites out.

"Yes," says K-2. He doesn't want to hurt Cassian, but he's usually pragmatic enough that once someone he trusts has pointed out his self-destructive behaviours he'll change them. K-2 is very good at knowing just how far to push.

K-2 estimates a 67.44 percent likelihood that Cassian's overall satisfaction with life would be improved by regular mental health maintenance by a professional, but that's not a high enough chance to push it. K-2 was never programmed for this, and while he knows there are thousands of contradictory texts available outlining appropriate ways to assist, things he should say or do for Cassian to elicit the most desirable outcome, none of them seem as directly applicable as K-2's own libraries, catalogues of Cassian's expressions, tones, body language, each linked to possible stimulus and observation of responses. K-2 is, over all, not very good at understanding organics and has no interest in doing so. He is, on the other hand, very good at understanding Cassian.

Cassian sits up on the edge of the bed and K-2 has the strange thought that he should leave, give the human his privacy. Everything in the last few hours has felt awkward and forced and K-2 realizes suddenly that nothing has changed since they left the Star Destroyer, that feeling of Cassian being the only thing he can trust, and the simultaneous understanding that the need to play a part could necessitate the breaking of that trust at any time.

Cassian gets up, and K-2 realizes he's still wearing his Imperial standard issue underwear and tanktop. They're softer than anything the Alliance provides. He runs fingers through his hair.

"Honestly," he says. "After three months of an Imperial military schedule, I don't know why you're complaining about being bored."

K-2 doesn't know how to respond. Cassian scrunches his face into a frown, then huffs out a breath.

"Right. Sorry, K."

"I certainly don't miss working for the Empire," K-2 says, sharply, because he thinks it needs to be said. Cassian takes a couple steps closer so he has to tilt his head to look up into K-2's optics.

"I know that. It's ok to miss parts of it, though."

"Believe me, there isn't anything to miss," K-2 says, and maybe this is a lie. Cassian takes a final step and leans his forehead against K-2's chest plating, his skin sticky and hot from sleep. K-2 puts a hand against his upper back, fingers tucking in at the top of his shoulder. It's a familiar position. Possibly the first thing in weeks and weeks that is both familiar and associated with positive experiences.

"I'm always tired," Cassian says, quietly. K-2 knows it's easier for him to say these things when he's hiding his face.

"I know," K-2 says. Cassian exhales a breath, and K-2 can feel each flex of muscle and slide of bone as he straightens up. K-2 keeps his hand on Cassian's back for an extra few seconds, and just before he pulls away he feels the slightest shift of weight when Cassian leans into it.


End file.
